Pray for You to Die
by porcelainclouds
Summary: He broke her every time. Gaara/Sakura. Angsty and maybe a little hot...hopefully. Short drabble-ish song inspired thing.


Ok, I'm not one to do songfics (or I guess this would, in essence, be a song drabble...sobble? hmm...) but I can certainly be inspired by a song. Go to schoonermusic and listen to Pray for You to Die for free on their website. Then go buy something of theirs, as they are lovely.

Oh, and I've had a crap day, so that's why it's all dark and angsty (though hopefully still good). I don't normally beg for it, but reviews please? They'll cheer me up!!

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Barren. Her heart felt barren. And it hurt with a dull ache that refused to give up its hold, refused to ease. 

Maybe this was despair.

This time it was a mission to Suna. Deliver a scroll, play nice with the Kazekage to strengthen the political ties, go home.

But then, as her hand brushed his while handing over the item, their eyes locked.

Panic.

She was dumbstruck by it. Not out of fear for the monster he had been, but out of fear for the monster he would be, yet again.

Later that night, while enjoying the cool, dry desert air, she felt him beside her on the roof. Without even touching her, his presence caused her to shiver. Standing close behind her, she could feel the warmth emanating from his body, caressing hers wordlessly without a single finger.

Sand on skin, trailing against her, relearning her body, small and seemingly harmless wisps of contact. Not caring or noticing that she was doing it, emerald green eyes drifted shut of their own accord, begging to be swallowed by the feel of the sand. Of him.

He would hurt her.

He would leave her.

Already, she knew the outcome, and yet couldn't walk away. She hated him for it.

Not touching her in any other way, his lips kissed the back of her neck, where cherry met porcelain, mouth slightly open and moist. It would have been awkward if it hadn't felt so sensual. If it hadn't meant so much. Hadn't been her undoing.

Wincing as if in pain, she lowered her head, simultaneously granting him more access.

Hands wrapped around her neck, both massaging and tightening, promising and threatening. His body pressed against the length of her, repositioning his hands. One around her waist drawing her back to him, the other reaching further around her to restrain her upper chest, no longer pressed against her throat.

Lips bafflingly soft brushed over her neck again and again. Back, side, under her ear, his breath quiet yet desperate. When teeth clamped lightly on her earlobe, a shudder wracked her body and a light moan escaped her open lips.

The arm at her waist dropped to the top of her pants, fingers slipping under the band, lingering there, waiting. As her head dropped back against his shoulder, his lips found hers, possible only because of his slight advantage in height. Mouths opened, hot breaths melded, merged, as his tongue licked at her lips, not needing to coax them open because her panting already afforded him access. Finally done teasing her, his mouth crashed against hers, neither able to caress enough, cover enough surface area, devour the other.

The hand around her upper body was removed only to snake under her left arm, kneading her breast through cloth. At the release of her arms, she lifted them to tangle in soft, untouched hair. A voice in the back of her head said that maybe he wouldn't hurt her. After all, no one was allowed to touch him, and that rule was already being broken.

No, she couldn't let herself think that. He always hurt her. Every time.

Thoughts were dispelled as the hand at her waistband slipped lower, underneath and then inside.

Sucking in air, which then left her body in a hoarse moan, she clutched tighter at him, begging him for more. Always more.

Quivering against him, bucking against the fingers moving inside of her more and more roughly, aching for release. Aching for more than release. Aching for emotion. Companionship. Completion.

Adding his thumb to her clit, he drove her ever higher, and as his mouth bit down on her shoulder hard enough to draw blood, she cried out and spasmed, crashing from the summit to which he had pushed her so quickly.

Spent and slumped against him, she shivered and a tear traced its way down her flushed cheek.

His hand slid from her pants, resting lightly at her waist, mimicking his other hand in where it had moved on her other side.

She straightened a bit, trying to compose herself, feeling the impending abandonment.

His tongue lapped twice, lightly, against the wound he had inflicted on her shoulder.

And then he was gone.

She didn't even bother turning around, because she knew he was gone.

Her chest felt tight. Too tight. And the tears wouldn't flow freely. They used to, but not anymore.

Every time, he destroyed her, leaving her to pick up the pieces, always losing a small shard in the process. Soon she was sure she wouldn't exist at all.

Yet it never stopped. And never became more. Months between their meetings. Sometimes they would have sex. Once she fell asleep with him still in her bed, only to find him gone by the time she awoke.

And tonight she would lay in bed alone.

And pray for him to die.


End file.
